


Truer Than Steel

by mautadite



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: 5+1 Things, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2018-08-19 13:21:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8210074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mautadite/pseuds/mautadite
Summary: Five nice things that Stannis receives, much to his confusion, and the one nice thing that he expected to get.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [attaccabottoni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/attaccabottoni/gifts).



> Written for round fifteen of the GOT exchange. Prompt as seen in summary. I sorta tied in your request for snapshots of Stannis from the POV of others. Hope you enjoy. :)

**i.**

Confused reports have been winging their way to Storm’s End for weeks now, but Cressen thinks they’ve finally had enough to put together a somewhat conclusive report. Unfortunately, it all bodes ill. Rickard and Brandon Stark dead, Lyanna Stark abducted, the king calling for Robert to come down off the Eyrie. Tensions are high; Cressen, Donald Noye, Ser Harbert, his men and Stannis have been ensconced in several uneasy meetings.

But Cressen still has his other duties, and one of them is the caretaking of Renly. The young lord is despondent; the weeks leading up to his nameday have been spent in a flurry of ever deepening pouts, as he realised that Robert would not be able to make it back to Storm’s End for the celebration. Robert’s last letters had been tantalisingly footnoted with tales of the pretty, strong-footed pony he planned to bring back for his youngest brother; notes that Renly had excitedly ordered Cressen to read aloud. 

Now, the day is here, and with his eldest brother still absent and no pony to be seen, Renly is more sad than surly. Cressen is leading him towards the Small Hall, where a little feast is to be held in his honour. It is the most they can do right now, when the castle is stiff with the tension that sweeps all across Westeros. The little lord clings to his hand silently, nothing like his usual exuberant self.

As they cross the courtyard, activity and constant motion swirling around them, a tall thin figure approaches from the barracks. Stannis. The middle Baratheon brother looks haggard beyond his years, and as always, it aches at Cressen’s heart to see it. His shoulders are rigid with all the pressure put upon him, but Stannis is as stubborn a boy as Cressen has ever seen, and he’ll see the bones break before he stoops.

Cressen nods politely as a greeting; Stannis doesn’t bother to return it.

“Renly,” he says, looking down to address his brother. “Go see Donal. Immediately, and be quick about returning,” he continues, raising his voice when Renly would interject. “There is much to do, and your dawdling won’t help.”

A deep frown creases lines into Renly’s pudgy little forehead and cheeks. There is more than a bit of a rebellious streak in the boy, and Cressen thinks for a moment that he might argue, but instead he mumbles beneath his breath, and runs to where the armoury and stables are located. Stannis immediately turns his stern gaze on Cressen.

“Have there been any more ravens?” he asks.

“No, my lord. But that does not mean they have not been sent. I’ve not received replies to many of my letters; I fear that ravens are being shot out of the sky.”

Stannis grinds his teeth, a habit that Cressen has been trying to coax out of him, without success, since childhood.

“I feared as much. Damn it all. I would give anything to have a piece of news that we can be absolutely sure of.”

“We must make do with what we can, my lord.”

“Hmph.” Stannis rubs a hand along his close-shaven jaw. “If Lord Stark and his heir have truly been murdered by the king…”

“Poor Ned,” Cressen murmurs unthinkingly, and only seconds later begins to regret it. Stannis’ eyes have gone darker and hollower.

“Yes, of course,” he says in a crisp deadpan. “Poor Ned Stark.”

“Stannis, I do not…” 

Truly, Cressen has no idea how he might continue or end the sentence; he only knows he must say _something_. The coldness and bitterness that has ever been inherent in Stannis has been growing day by day. Cressen fears that it will make him brittle in the end, unwilling to see that he is loved.

Whatever his reply might have been, it is cut off by a long, whooping yell. A small black-haired blur rushes across the courtyard, and before either of them can react, Renly is pelting himself into Stannis’ arms, wrapping his legs around his waist and planting a kiss onto his cheek. Stannis looks… flummoxed is the only word for it, really.

“Thank you thank you thank you thaaaaaaaank you Stannis, he’s so handsome and strong, Donal says when bad things stop happening I can take him for walks ‘round the village, would you come with me, I think I’ll name him Dancer, no _Sunlight_ because his eyes are so shiny! Thank you!”

He kisses his brother again, laughing. Stannis is absolutely stone-faced, and Cressen has to counsel himself into keeping a straight face, but on the inside, he is blooming with fondness. He’d heard nothing about this gift, so it had to have been a last minute effort, or an exercise that involved a gargantuan amount of secrecy.

Wordlessly, Stannis pries his brother away, and sets him on his feet. His face is still granite, with one tiny muscle flexing away beneath his temple.

“Do not repeat such unseemly behaviour again,” he orders, straightening his clothes. It is his usual terse voice, but Renly is gazing up at him as if sunshine is pouring from his mouth. “You may ride him once the feast is over. Go along; I’m sure it will be starting soon.”

A river of thanks flows from Renly once again, and it is only after he has beamed his way to a nod from Stannis that he takes off running for the Small Hall, his little legs kicking up dust in his wake.

Cressen looks at him go, smiling, and then turns back to Stannis. The young lord is watching his brother go, a touch of bemusement colouring the hard planes of his face.

“That was kindly done, Stannis,” Cressen has to say, and quick as a whip, Stannis’ expression falls back into its customary frown.

“I was only trying to spare us all the theatrics that would have come had he not received the gift he expected. Damn Robert and his promises… You can tell him that the pony came from the Eyrie, sent along by Robert. I care not. Find us in the solar after the feast, Maester Cressen.”

Stannis turns and leaves before Cressen can get a word in, and he’s left looking at the young man’s retreating back. He smiles softly. There is more kindness in Stannis than anyone really knows, least of all the boy himself. Cressen tucks his hands into the sleeves of his robes, and prepares to follow Renly to the feast at a much more sedate pace.

A gift from Robert, indeed. Cressen will tell the boy no such thing.

*

**ii.**

It’s been several moons now, and the stump is mostly healed, but he still feels ghostly pains, electric spikes, tingles crawling in places that no longer exist. Donal comes from a long line of armourers and warriors, he’s known several uncles and a grandfather who’ve lost limbs to accident or battle or their trade. He knows what to expect, but the reality of it throws him more than he’d like to admit.

Storm’s End is a place much changed from the desolation and desperation of the past year. The collective survival of the castle’s inhabitants is a tale told through the words _just in time_. They had closed the gates and raised the portcullis _just in time_. The wily smuggler and his cargo of onions and fish had slipped through the blockade _just in time_. Eddard Stark, coming down from the North with his banners streaming had smashed into Mace Tyrell’s backside _just in time_.

Ned Stark is very much the man of the hour; his name is on every tongue and he is being hailed as their saviour after lifting the long and dreadful siege. But as grateful as he might be to the northman, Donal Noye knows better.

Donal stands without the solar, waiting for his audience with the young lord. With the siege lifted, Stannis is being given little time to rest. Ned Stark has already departed, and instructions have come down from Robert, instructions that will no doubt see the middle Baratheon leaving Storm’s End to carry the fight to the Targaryens. Before he leaves, Donal would have words.

It’s not a lengthy wait. Before long, Ser Harbert and Maester Cressen are slipping out of the room, waving him in. Stannis is standing at the head of the table, palms pressed forward onto the cold stone, surveying a flurry of maps and letters. He wears his sword on his hip, his first true steel, the one Donal had been tasked to make for him. He is sure to grow out of it soon; it is a pity Donal won’t be here to make him his next one.

“Noye,” Stannis says shortly, as stiff as ever. His impatience is one of his greatest flaws, one that Donal does not see him growing out of very soon, unfortunately. He has a score of virtues besides, however; strength, wits, a critical mind and a militant body. Hopefully they will be enough to see him through the trials that are sure to follow.

“My lord.” He bows. “I’ll be quick. It seems to me unlikely that the winds will blow in such a way that will have us meeting again soon, so I wanted to say my piece before you left.”

Stannis looks up for the first time. His shadowy eyes are narrowed and his brows have lifted. When it becomes apparent that he does not intend to interject, Donal continues.

“I want to thank you, for seeing us through the siege. We all had a damned terrible time of it, and under a different commander we might have lost our humanity before we lost our lives. You saw that it didn’t come to that, though; you managed our rations, ruled with discipline and good sense, and kept heads cool when men would have gone stark mad. For that, we all owe you our thanks.”

He gives another little bow at the end of his speech, and only belatedly catches the look on Stannis’ face. It vacillates between confusion and muted fury.

“Are you trying,” Stannis grates out between thin lips that barely part, “to patronise me, Noye?”

Donal stands straighter, and moves to clasp his hands behind his back before he remembers that he only has one hand to clasp. He does it anyway.

“Not at all, my lord; I think I’m one of the few who know better than to try. Everything that I’ve said is the truth, and it deserves to be said.”

He wonders, looking at Stannis’ stony, almost nonplussed face, if anyone _has_ bothered to say it. Cressen, no doubt, but the man is like a father to Stannis, and praise from your family isn’t quite the same, no matter how true it might be. But Donal is no dissembler, the gods strike him dead if he ever seeks to become one. Stannis is still half a boy, despite his hard face and aged mannerisms, a few moons shy of twenty years. It was a damned feat he had performed, keeping the castle alive and out of Tyrell hands under so much pressure, for such a long time. 

Stannis stares at him for a minute yet, shadows of a different kind shifting in his eyes, as if he’s not yet sure that he isn’t being mocked. Donal leaves him to come to his own conclusion, and when he does, his frown lightens, just a little.

“There’s no need for you to go to the Wall, Noye. We could yet use your talents at Storm’s End.”

Donal chuckles, deep and from his belly.

“No my lord, what you could use is a smith with both his arms to serve you well into the coming years. I will stay and be of what use I can during this war of your brother’s, but when it’s over, I’ll make my vows to the Night’s Watch.”

Stannis’ mouth twitches.

“As you wish,” he says, and waves Donal out. After a last bow, the smith leaves.

He finds Davos waiting outside the doors. The Onion Knight wears a subdued expression, and holds a cleaver in both his hands, one of which will be missing four knuckles by day’s end, if Donal had heard right.

“Ser Onion,” he greets him, clasping hands. “Here to see our young lord?”

“Aye,” the smuggler replies. “Though I imagine we’ll be relocating shortly.” He waggles his fingers. “Far be it for me to sully his lordship’s chambers.”

Donal laughs, clasping his belly with his palm.

“It isn’t too late you know,” he says. “You can still take the black, come north with me and freeze your arse off in Ned Stark’s lands.”

Davos chuckles, and shakes his head. He already has one hand on the doorknob.

“Thank you, Noye, but I think not. I’ve long made up my mind.”

Donal watches him push into the solar, hears the terse but somehow lively words that Lord Stannis greets him with. He nods to himself on the way down the stairs, thinking of the times he has seen the two men together, the way Davos always meets him head on, never lies and never softens the truth. No, not for him the solitude and cold of the North, not when he can bring so much balance to a man who sorely needs it. 

This is for the best. 

*

**iii.**

Selyse leads her horse carefully down to the docks. She is a good rider, has been ever since her maidenhood, and can tame a horse as well as any man. But if she has read her body’s signs correctly, it might be more than one life that this dappled grey mare bears on its way to the shore. Over the years, there have been false alarms aplenty, turns where she would miss her moon’s blood and wait in vain for her belly to grow great. She has a feeling however, a trembling premonition in her soul, that this time is different.

_Fury_ sits docked close to the shore, and is the first ship to come into sight. Her husband’s war galley sways with the bobbing sea, sails raised proudly and triumphantly, as if pleased to bear Stannis away yet again. Selyse sees little of her husband, and soon she will see less of him. Miles and miles away on the other side of Westeros, the Ironmen have rebelled, and Robert has need of his fleet.

War is a tiresome thing to Selyse, a pitiful mix of egos and steel. A seemingly necessary evil of the world, but no other evil is quite as avoidable, quite so steeped in chance and folly. She had lived through one as a maiden, sitting behind the walls of Brightwater Keep as Robert’s Rebellion ravaged the land. She had not thought to see another quite so soon, but perhaps that is her own foolishness.

It is early morning. Dragonstone is as damp and cold as it always is, with sea birds shrieking overhead and crabs scuttling along the shore. The fleet will leave in a few hours, so she has more than enough time. The Baratheon guard spots her coming with her little procession, and by the time she’s reached the shoreline, word has been sent up to the _Fury_. It is close enough that when Stannis emerges on the deck, Selyse can see him clearly outlined against the cloud-choked sky; his ever-receding brow, his hard face, his glinting armour. The Onion Knight stands at his shoulder.

“What?” Stannis calls down, short as ever. Selyse purses her lips. As usual, his irritability only serves to make _her_ more irritated, and they mirror one another in a most unhelpful way. So as with all of their interactions, she seeks to make it quick.

“Your cough, my lord.” She waves to the servant next to her, and he begins making his way up to the ship.

Stannis glares.

“What of it? It can’t have bothered you all the way up at the castle.”

Selyse glares right back, feeling her tone turn brittle and tight. Her mount shifts beneath her, but she settles it with a firm hand on the reins. 

“I am sending up a remedy. It was prepared this morning, and should see you all the way through your voyage. And it works.”

That is the information that Stannis would most care to hear; the _only_ information, she would wager. It hadn’t taken long to realise that utility is what matters most with her husband, and it makes her duty as his wife much easier, and much more practical. As a girl, she’d learnt needlework with all the rest, learnt how to make pretty, useless embellishments, and stitch her initials into flimsy pieces of silk. Favours and trinkets, to give to her beloved before a battle or a tourney. It had been the greatest relief to find that Stannis thinks such gestures as ridiculous as she does.

Utility is what he favours, but he says nothing as he watches the servant ascend with the bottle of broth. His brows are still deeply furrowed, and he is looking at Selyse as if she’d just risen out of a hole in the ground. His continued silence whets the sharp edge of her annoyance, so much so that it is a relief when his Onion Knight speaks up.

“Ahem. You know what the smallfolk say, my lord,” he says cheerfully. “A wife’s loving hand is half the cure.”

Selyse blinks at him balefully, and her husband fixes him with a side-eyed look. Stannis does not need to be told that she did not have a hand, loving or otherwise, in the making of the broth; she has little patience for culinary arts and the constant heat of a kitchen. A quick order to the cook had seen it done.

Up on the ship’s deck, Stannis shifts, and finally replies.

“It will be useful,” he says shortly, as the servant hands the broth over to Ser Onion. It sounds like a dismissal, and Selyse supposes it is one. Stannis’ hands grip the edge of the deck; she imagines that they are jittery with the urge to drum in impatience. She gathers up the reins, ready to leave. 

It occurs to Selyse that she should say something; this is the last time that they will see each other in gods know how long; many moons, perhaps. Her mind wheels through the possibilities. _I will miss you_ is a lie; _I love you_ is an even bigger one. _Do not die_ is the pragmatic option (she does not look forward to the hassle of being widowed) but to Stannis it would probably sound like an order.

In the end, as she turns her mount back in the direction of the castle, she only says, “Fight well.” Something of an entreaty, something of a blessing, and the sincerest thing that comes to Selyse’s mind. All the affection that she lacks for her husband has morphed into grudging respect, and she channels it all into those two words. Tonight she will enter the castle’s great sept, pray, make her offerings to the Father, the Mother and the Warrior, and hope to see him again.

She doesn’t expect him to give a reply, but one does come, decided and calm, carried by the wind.

“I shall.”

*

**iv.**

If Davos could find a better word for it, he would use it. But since he cannot, he admits it to himself, with no small amount of wonder.

Stannis is stammering.

“You… you do not. You do not have to…”

Davos hushes him with a kiss; one of the new liberties that he is allowed in this strange new world, a world that exists in the sphere of Stannis’ chambers, while he has him pressed down into his utilitarian sheets, hands roaming, hips rolling. Coming back from the dead, it seems, was a tiny avalanche in itself, and it grew and snowballed until suddenly it was this. Warm, bristling kisses. Clothes shed in haste. A firm, kingly hand on his backside.

Davos breaks away from the kiss with a small groan, only to press a gentle one into Stannis’ neck.

“I know that I don’t have to, your grace, but I want to,” he explains. He feels like it doesn’t bear saying; his want should be obvious in his harsh breathing, that feeling of muted starvation, his hard cock. “The only question that remains is if you want to as well.”

Stannis’ reply is to squirm in place for a moment, jaw working away beneath the stubble of his beard. Each breath of his seems a labour, and his skin is very hot. Davos looks at him, thinks him beautiful, and waits for him to speak.

“It is not…” The words are ground out like fruit beneath a pestle. “It doesn’t _work_.”

Frustration and arousal both are heating up the stone blue of his eyes. Davos isn’t sure of what he speaks. Stannis fathered Shireen, and Davos knows that Selyse had miscarried a few times, earlier in their marriage, so he knows what Stannis _doesn’t_ mean. He tries to search his liege’s eyes, but finds nothing there but smoke.

Davos grasps Stannis hand, kisses a few knuckles under the flinty blue stare. He has lost his luck; these can serve as his replacements, for now.

“Leave that to me. But that wasn’t an answer, Stannis. Do you _want_ me to? It must be yes or no.”

Even in the throes of pleasure, Stannis’ glare is a full-bodied thing.

“Do you presume to order me, Lord Hand?”

“Never, your grace.” He gives him another kiss, smiling as he does. “Not without your permission to do so.”

That manages to wrangle one of those rare laughs from Stannis, a brief, barking thing that is no less precious for its harshness. Davos strokes down Stannis’ sides with his shortened fingers, palms his flesh, dots the broad plane of his chest with firm kisses while he waits for the king’s answer. When it comes, it does so haltingly, in a ground out affirmative.

Davos gives him another kiss as thanks, and sets to work. The tightening anticipation under his skin lets him know how much he himself has been looking forward to this. He’s not quite recovered from his ordeals, hasn’t quite squared away the grief of Blackwater Bay, and this is just the thing to lose himself in. The grip of his king’s hand in his hair as Davos kisses his way down the hard stomach. His king’s voice in his ear, rumbling coarsely like a storm. The planes of his king’s body, absolutely taut with arousal.

His king.

His hands and mouth suss out all the things that Stannis does not say. He knows that this is Stannis’ first time having his cock sucked, a reality that seems nigh impossible to him. Extra care is spent in those first moments where his lips close over Stannis’ thickening length. His king gasps, and his little shudder turns into a long twisty one when Davos thumbs gently at his hipbones. Davos sucks slowly, patiently, not minding the leisurely pace at which Stannis grows hard. He has more than enough to occupy his time: the crisp, musky scent that fills his nose, the way Stannis will sometimes shiver and gasp as if the sound has been wrenched from him, the way his knees splay helplessly when Davos plays with his bollocks.

Feeling the king move and come alive under his ministration is the best part. Callused hands in his hair, a rough thumb at the corner of his mouth… it feels like his fortunes coming to life.

It’s been a long time learning why, but Davos’ eyes are somehow always drawn to Stannis. He doesn’t try to stop them now. He watches up at Stannis as he sucks his cock, and it’s like watching written verse come to life. The rigid line of his mouth parts, colour blooms in his cheeks, and he perpetually has some bit of aborted speech on his tongue. 

“ _Davos_ ,” he grates out, sometimes on the tail of a heaving breath, sometimes so faintly the word seems to fade before it begins. Davos has heard his name in that mouth many a time before, but never quite like this, and it urges him on. His hands cradle Stannis’ hips, rubbing circles in the place where pelvis turns into thigh, all while he uses his tongue and lips to coax Stannis towards orgasm.

The moment he feels him about to come, Davos draws away. Stannis groans, frustration lacing through his voice, but Davos hasn’t gone far. He licks a line up the underside of Stannis’ cock, latches his lips onto the head to suckle at it, and closes his fist around Stannis’ girth. A few quick strokes more and he’s coming, one hand maintaining a vice grip on Davos’ hair, knuckles to mouth to stifle his cry.

By the time Davos has kissed his way back up to Stannis’ face, the king’s breathing is somewhat under control once again. But once more, Davos is able to suss out what has not been said. It had never been like that for Stannis. He was probably never aware that it _could_ be like that. The quietly stunned look on his face is as good as a picture-book.

“Davos,” Stannis says simply. His voice is not warm, it will never be warm, but it hums with an undercurrent of content. Davos slants their lips together, falling into a long kiss. Stannis has given him so much that no one else could, and the moments where Davos can do the same are deeply precious.

Later, Stannis strokes him to climax, hands warm and slippery with slick. Davos brings those fingers up to his mouth and kisses them one by one; the scarred index, the burnt ring finger, the callused thumb. For luck.

*

**v.**

It is good to be back on land, but despite the nearby ocean, the salty air and similar grim surroundings, Eastwatch-by-the-Sea feels nothing like home. The cold here is a shock, and she’d been so startled to feel it the first time that she hadn’t noticed her hands going numb. Mother makes sure that she is well supplied with furs and many layers, but Shireen is daunted nonetheless. From the mutterings of all the old black brothers, it will only get colder still.

They’ve only been here a short while, but Father is leaving on the morrow, off west along the Wall to fight wildlings and monsters. What little she knows about the venture she learnt from listening in on conversations and simple deductions. Mother seems to want to shield her from such knowledge. The tales scare her, so she is partly grateful, but there is a cloying type of helplessness that comes from ignorance, living in the dark. Shireen mislikes it deeply.

Before the twilight hour, she leaves the room that has been assigned to her and ventures out in search of the king. She has not seen very much of Father lately; he is always ensconced in long meetings with the red woman, his knights, and Ser Davos. It’s been a while, too, since she’s had a moment to sit and speak with her friend the Onion Knight. He is already gone, sailing along the Narrow Sea to do her father’s bidding. Shireen is glad that Davos has risen to higher honour as the new Hand of the King, but she does not relish the thought that he too might soon become sparse and distant. Already it is difficult to get Devan to spare more than a few moments for her. All she has is Mother (when she is not staring into one of Melisandre’s fires) and Patches. 

She keeps her head down and walks quickly through the yard, and is not waylaid once. Shireen knows that she looks nothing like a princess ought to, and it’s easy for eyes to skip past her. It had been useful on Dragonstone, when she wanted to explore the hidden crevices and pathways, and it is useful now. She only hopes that she’s allowed to see Father, when she does reach him. Her father has been at war for a long time now, and Shireen still shudders to think that every goodbye could be the last. Sometimes there isn’t time for goodbyes; he often has to leave in the dead of morning when Shireen is still abed, tossing and shifting with the nightmares that plague her still. 

It isn’t difficult to find the tower that she seeks. Once inside, eyes are a bit keener, and she’s soon spotted and identified. Two guards escort her up to the room that the Night’s Watch has given the king as a solar. Shireen can hear her father’s voice; not quite raised but certainly cross. She’s willing to bet anything that he’s arguing with Cotter Pyke once again. Over what, she’s not sure, but it could be anything. The king always seems quicker to anger when Ser Davos isn’t at hand.

In due time, Cotter Pyke stalks out, his blacks whipping around him angrily. Shireen watches him go, and then peeks into the room. Father stands at the head of the table scowling down at the letter in front of him. He makes an impressive sight as always, but Shireen notices how many new lines seem to crinkle across his brow, how sunken and dark his eyes are. It makes her sad. 

The guards don’t need to announce her; Father looks up, and his ever-present frown deepens.

“Shireen,” he says, and his eyes flicker at once to the guards standing behind her. “How did you get here? Were you escorted?”

“No…” she has to admit, also turning to glance unhappily at the guards. She hopes that no one will be reprimanded because of her. “I just wanted to speak with you before you leave… I know you shall be very busy tomorrow, so I wanted to give you…”

Her voice dies away. She feels very silly, now that she’s standing here and her father is looking down at her with the stern, no-nonsense features that she knows so well. A muscle in his cheek twitches, and she’s sure that she is about to be chastised and sent away. But instead, he waves the guards off, instructing them to close the door. Shireen watches them depart with relief. 

“I do not have much time, Shireen,” Father says, coming round the table to stand closer to her. “What is it?”

Shireen’s blush deepens. As always, it is an awkward, one-sided feeling; the blood only rushes to one side of her face, and the cheek scarred by the greyscale remains cold and hard. She reaches into her cloak.

“I wanted to give you this. I worked on it while we were at sea. There are many drawings of the Wall in books, but I made this one to be bigger. I put some colours in too, though they are very simple. I labelled all the keeps…” And here, Shireen realises that she is rambling on without ever showing Father her work; she unrolls the parchment and hands it over to him. “I thought you’d like to have it.”

The king is silent as he peruses the parchment, sunken eyes moving over it in its entirety. It almost makes Shireen nervous, but she knows that that is his way, to completely inspect and digest everything that he is given. She sees the moment his eyes pass over her last minute addition; a simple drawing of her family that hovers over Castle Black. Shireen stands square in the middle, her parents on either side of her. Davos stands just to her father’s right, just as he always does. It is a childish scribble, and looks out of place among the neat lines and curves that she’d recreated so carefully. But she finds that she doesn’t regret it. It renders the work less clinical, and more her own. 

And now it belongs to her father. He looks at it for a few seconds more before rolling the parchment up. He takes his time doing so, and reties the ribbon neatly.

She watches him expectantly; her nerves are all afire.

“Shireen,” he begins, brows drawn down. “This is quite good. I have seen maesters whose copies are not as well done.”

Her smile starts out small, and quickly turns into a beam. “Thank you, Father.”

“Are you.” He’s still frowning, but she knows him well enough to realise that it is not a frown of displeasure. “Are you sure that you don’t want to keep it?”

“Very sure, Father. I did it for you.”

She smiles up at him, the sight of her drawing in his hand lifting an invisible burden off her shoulders. Her father doesn’t smile back, but one of his hands comes to rest atop her head. He doesn’t smooth her hair back, doesn’t ruffle it. He doesn’t move at all. But this weight is a pleasant one, and much easier to bear. Before she can question the urge, she closes the gap between them with one step, and wraps her arms around her father’s waist. Like her smile, the hug isn’t quite returned, but his hand remains on her head, comfortably warm.

“Thank you, Shireen,” he says in his gruff voice. Shireen nods, the cold side of her face pressed against his doublet. There is a war at her father’s heels, howling and licking its chops, but for now, she does her best to keep it at bay. The embrace continues for a long minute, and when it ends, her father takes her hand and walks her back to her quarters.

*

**vi.**

There is no Sack of King’s Landing.

At least not in any way that compares to the decades-old plunder, when his brother’s forces had taken the city. Stannis’ army has their orders, and they know well the ramifications of going against them. Rapists lose their appendages, thieves lose their hands, and the gravest offenders lose their lives. Besides, there is no real battle to be had. The bulk of the Lannister forces had been decimated at the Battle of the Bridges, their ships smashed by the might of _Fury_ and her fleet. The boy is safely their hostage, his advisors thrown into the prisons to await their trials.

Stannis strides into the throne room of the Red Keep. Around him, his soldiers are already stripping the walls of their red and gold tapestries. It is quite the mixed force, his army; northmen, crannogmen, stormlanders, soldiers from the Eyrie with the look of the First Men about them, men from the Reach with summer in their skin. A mixed force, years in the making, but it had worked.

At his side is the man some might say is the most misplaced of all; Flea Bottom orphan, ex-smuggler, a knight of fish and onions. And so much more.

They walk up to the Iron Throne. Its shadow is huge and dark across the glistening floors, and each pointed edge seems like a promise.

“As ugly a chair as I remember it,” Davos comments, hands clasped behind his back.

“Quiet,” Stannis says without meaning it. He doesn’t have to look to know that Davos is smiling. The man has earned the right to make a few sallies. _Save the kingdom. Win the throne._ Years ago, Davos had reminded Stannis of his duty, and it had been the first step to winning this war. Stannis has made many wrong turns over the years, made decisions that he would come to regret. It is ever gratifying to know that he had not erred when he bade the Onion Knight to kneel at his feet, and arise the Hand of the King.

He takes the stairs up to the iron monstrosity, two by two. When he reaches the summit, and touches the cold metal of the throne, it feels like the end of a much longer uphill climb. Stannis exhales. It is a satisfying feeling, to touch what is rightfully his, and know that it cannot be contested. He has faced every trial, surmounted every hill. All of his work has finally come to fruition, as he always knew it would.

When he turns, it is to find that his Hand, the Kingsguard and his soldiers all have dropped to their knees. Stannis waves them up impatiently; there is no time to waste now with useless displays. Davos is the first to arise, the badge of his office glinting like steel. He smiles.

“We’ve done it, your grace.”

“Yes.” Stannis touches the throne once more, but does not sit. There will be time for that later; duty is still his foremost stimulus. He descends the stair quickly, and claps Davos on the shoulder. “Now, we can begin to work.”

**Author's Note:**

> A sad side-note: that pony that Stannis gave to Renly? Yeeeah, it would have definitely been eaten during the siege. :( Stannis and Cressen would have of course tried to shield the truth from Renly, but it would have come out eventually, and that day Stannis probably lost all the ground he’d gained with his little brother.


End file.
